


Poor Man's Summer

by Daenys the Dreamer (lovely_ericas)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Post-Canon, Post-War for the Dawn, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 16:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17206892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_ericas/pseuds/Daenys%20the%20Dreamer
Summary: Arya and Gendry iron out the future.





	Poor Man's Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azulaahai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/gifts).



> Happy Holidays! Hope you like it!
> 
> As part of the gotsecretsanta exchange on tumblr.

They’re helping plow the fields. Him, Arya, and her brother Rickon. It’ll be spring soon, or so everyone seems to say. It’s not as cold as it had been when they were battling for their lives, Gendry’ll grant that but otherwise he’s not sure how he’s supposed to be able to tell. There’s still plenty of snow on the ground and apparently here in the North, it can snow in every season.

So - the fields. It’s peasant work really, but the realm had lost many able-bodied men to the fight and the North most of all. Gendry doesn’t mind doing peasant work. After all, he was smallfolk himself, wasn’t he? Besides he liked to feel useful and though he was a poorer farmer than blacksmith, his strength served him well. 

For all the horrors, Gendry had been happier in the North than had been anywhere else except maybe those last years at Tobho Mott’s. And yet, he doesn’t know if there’s anything here for him. He has no place back south to be sure but how long will the Starks tolerate his presence in Winterfell? He’ll stay as long as Arya wants him. He knows she doesn’t need him.

Arya’s sister Sansa - Princess Sansa in truth or as the North calls her Queen Sansa - watches him with a curious look in her eyes whenever they both are in Winterfell’s courtyard. It’s not malice in her glance but it doesn’t feel welcoming either. Gendry thinks she is waiting for him to demand something or to do something grievous that will let her put him out.

She and Arya’s other brother, Bran,  _ King _ Bran that is, had stayed behind in Winterfell whilst he, Arya,  _ Princess _ Arya, and their youngest brother,  _ Prince _ Rickon, had accompanied a group of survivors to plow the fields outside of Winterfell.

He’s been substituting as Winterfell’s smith but surely at some point they’ll want a smith whose lineage is better than his, in short one who isn’t bastard-born. They’ll not find a better smith than him but there was much to do and not all of it armour and weaponry, which he could manage to perfection but which was not of immediate priority. Nails and horseshoes were easy enough but he’d not had much experience with the equipment of farming, either as a farmer or as a smith. 

King Bran had let it be known that today would be a opportune moment to plant crops which was why Gendry was here amongst the fields rather than in his forge - not  _ his _ forge, Winterfell’s. Without food to replenish the quickly diminishing crumbs of the Winterfell larder, they would all starve before winter ever came again. 

Gendry doesn’t envy Arya for her own siblings nor the suffering she endured being separated from them but he does wish he had at least memories of his mother beyond wisps of blonde hair, a sad smile, and a tune he has never been able to replicate outside his memories, or some other member of his family. 

Arya comes up beside him and passes him a heavy water pitcher, water slopping over the edge. Water they have in abundance. Should the wells of Winterfell for whatever reason go dry they need only melt the snow that surrounds them in every direction.

Gendry drinks deep, savoring the cold, delicious taste of the water. He would not trade this water for the finest Dornish wine. Though it is winter, he is slick with sweat from working in the fields, swathed in leather and fur. There are not enough men - not enough  _ people _ \- to get through with ploughing all the fields in time so he is working with what he has been told is called a fork hoe, which requires him to bend, rake the soil, walk, and begin again. Several rows behind him, Prince Rickon and a group of younger children are dropping seeds into the soil he’s uncovered and further back, a cluster of old men and women follow, covering over the seeds with firm hands.

“Tired?” Arya asks. She is covered in sweat also but she doesn’t look half as awful as Gendry feels. She’s wearing a pair of breeches he reckons once belonged to one of her brothers.

He shrugs, setting the water jug by their feet. “I feel like a horse sat on me but there’s work to be done.” He ought to call her m’lady or your grace but Arya kicks him when he does and he sees no reason to risk a bruised leg when no one else is close enough to hear their conversation.

Arya snorts and says, “Sundown is soon. There’s no use working in the dark.” He knows that. He knows that much by now. She stoops to lift the jug again and makes her way across the field to bring more water.

Night falls soon after, at least it feels not long after in spite of the hard, back breaking work. Gendry falls in step with the other men and women streaming into Winterfell’s great hall. There is delicious brown bread and the last of the cheese bought from the Vale and even some venison brought back by a small hunting party.

Gendry slides into an open spot in the benches. Arya climbs the dais and stoops to whisper in her brother’s ear. Rickon is devouring a hunk of cheese wrapped around crispy venison inside a slab of bread. Gendry looks away and reaches for his own food. He takes a large swallow of mead and nearly chokes as he looks up to find Arya, catlike, beside him.

“Why aren’t you eating up there?” He says, an edge to his voice, once he’s recovered his breath.

She gives him a look like he’s being stupid. “I sit where I like.”

Gendry grunts and reaches for another wedge of cheese.

“Arran said you’ve talked about leaving Winterfell.“ She says, naming one of the few remaining members of Winterfell’s garrison.

Gendry’s chest feels tight. “So,” he says, more a challenge than a question.

“You mean to leave then.” Arya says. “When will you leave?”

“I’ll not leave you in the lurch.” Gendry says scowling. “I won’t leave until you’ve found another smith.”

Arya lets out a growl of frustration. “ _ Stupid _ ! That isn’t what I meant at all! I know you wouldn’t.”

Gendry feels his temper cooling a little. She doesn’t mean to get rid of him. Not now at least.

He takes another swallow. “What did you mean then?” 

“I meant...What I meant was...Well, where do you mean to go? Would you stay on if you were to be Winterfell’s smith, properly? You’ve more than earned it if you wish to be. Would...would you stay if I asked?” Arya says this last bit hesitantly, softly.

“I’ll stay as long as you wish me to.” He says, gruffly, unable to look her in the eyes.

“Then you’ll stay?” Arya asks. “Always?”

Gendry looks up at her then. She’s biting her lip as though..as though worried he’ll say no! As though he’ll leave her.

“I’ll stay as long as you wish it.” He says again, managing to look her in the eye. 

Arya beams. She is wild and boyish and likely always will be but to Gendry there is no one more beautiful.

“Always.” She promises.

**Author's Note:**

> The ages here are somewhere between book and show.


End file.
